


Burned at the Stake

by flybirdyfly



Category: Hiveswap, Homestuck
Genre: College AU, F/F, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Supernatural AU - Freeform, it's a work in progress but it picks up :), there's not rlly a lot its scantly referenced
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-17 13:27:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28849821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flybirdyfly/pseuds/flybirdyfly
Summary: "Tyzias Entykk is a college fresh(wo)man.  She's just gotten settled into a routine she's set up for herself:  drink coffee, go to class, read another book, do homework, go to sleep, rinse and repeat.  She's made some friends too.  Not the closest in the universe, but certainly friends.  When a new discovery comes along to wreck her mundane setup, what's a student to do?"AKA Tyzias is a tired student in a modern fantasy AU.
Relationships: Tyzias Entykk/Stelsa Sezyat
Comments: 8
Kudos: 5





	1. cinnamon

As I shuffle out of class, I make a special effort to scuff my sandals against the linoleum. Scheduling the three hour 6:45 am calculus class was a mistake if I’d ever heard of one, but at least I got it out of the way early. Once a week, I could hit the library before anyone could steal my spot due being forced out of bed so early. Once I exit the threshold of the room, the wind begins jostling my hair around; and a piece blows straight into my mouth.  _ Bleck _ . I walk off to the side, and look up to assess the weather. 

The sky is painted a soft grey, almost uniform in tone. It’s the colour of those plush faux fur blankets: clouds fade into darker greys, and back into foreboding offwhite. A soft mist drifts through the air. It’s not quite thick enough to be considered “rain”, but it’s certainly enough to make me take my glasses off. I wrap them up gently in their cleaning cloth, and slip the bundle back into my hoodie pocket. Braving the path to the library without glasses on is worth not having to clean them again. Beside me, the few people with friends willing to take such an ungodly early class with them gossip in strident tones. Something about ‘Stella’ getting plastered at a party. Whoever that is, I don’t envy them considering the nasty laughs I hear coming from the gaggle. However, I won’t dare to look back and lose the chance to listen in; but their voices fade anyways as they walk off.

I take another moment to study the sky. Tilting my head back lets the wind caress my face. It’s a cool, slightly stinging touch compared to the stuffy stench of the classroom. The professor insists on turning up the heat every time. Maybe if I stand here long enough, the wind will take me wherever it is wind goes. Getting out of this school -- out of this town -- would be a welcome change, even if just for a moment or two. I’d breathe different air than what I’ve been recycling my whole life. Though with a deep sigh, I begin to haul my ass off to the library. At least the librarians have a policy of keeping it nice and icy in there until November 1st.

As I walk, I can’t help but feel the rain slowly soaking into my socks. The curse of socks and sandals has finally come back to bite me, and Daraya will never let me live it down if I tell her. Even as I resolve not to, I have the nagging feeling it’ll come slipping out at some point. Construction noises rumble off in the distance, breaking through my inner monologuing; and I decide to make it a game to walk along to their beat. Nobody’s around, so I don’t have to worry about making a fool of myself. Although, it’s not like I wouldn’t do it if anyone was around. Maybe my reputation needs a little bit of stupid shenanigans to lighten it up. It might make group work go a bit smoother. 

I bend my knees as I start bouncing along to the rhythm. With each step, I make sure that my foot is squarely on one of the paving stones. If each step has purpose, the trip to the library feels a lot less like walking to my inevitable grave and a little bit more like the chance to do some good. Can’t do my best work if I’m stuck down in the dumps, right?

I like to try that line of reasoning out a lot. It doesn’t work, but I’m stubborn. If I try it often enough, I figure its sentiments might rub off on me. Psychology or parenting techniques or something. Wherever I read it, I remember the author was real hung up on setting social examples. 

Before I know it, the library looms over me. It’s a concrete building from a period of time where undecorated concrete faux modern slabs were all the rage. Whenever that could’ve been wasn’t a time I was around; for the life of me, I can’t remember when this would be considered even mildly sightly. I quit my half dancing walk, and stride through the doors in a default -- albeit leisurely -- manner. With as much time as I spend holed up in this spot, I need the librarians to think I’m not completely mad. Classmates don’t get that same treatment, but what can I say? I choose my battles wisely.

Inside, there’s the desk to my right. A slouching woman I’ve never seen before sits behind it scrolling through something on the computer. The harsh computer light highlights her face, making her look pale and exhausted; and she doesn’t look up to see me walk past as I slide my glasses back on. The library has an interior which is dissimilar to its exterior. Inside, it’s downright cozy -- if a bit cold with the heaters off. There’s the same grey and gold striped office carpet that decorates most of the classrooms, outside of the Math and Science block, paired with the towering bookcases and a healthy dosage of potted plants. A couple of the library employees have a penchant for them, and I’ve been told that the plants have been piling up for a few years now. Some of them are exotic, I think. I’ve never been much for horticulture, but at least a few of them are definitely ones I’ve seen down by the greenhouses. There’s some couches scattered around which are all the modern-furniture shade of teal that seemingly every library has picked up nowadays. To accompany them, there’s some round tables and chairs scattered around. I don’t use the tables all that much since they’re full of groups most of the time. 

Once I pass the desk, I dart off sharply to my right. My feet make nearly silent thudding sounds on the carpet as I plod along steadily. The books along this aisle are all political theories. Marx, Rand, Aquinas and Dines are some of the names I spot, but I’m not paying much attention to the books. I’ve started my descent into the maze of the library. At the end of this aisle, I make a left. Then, a right. Left, left, right. At this point, I’m in a section of CDs that opens up small cluster of armchairs at the end. This is one of the corners of the library. It’s got a few tall, narrow windows opened at the top to let in natural light. Outside, I can see that the trees are being bullied by the wind; and the drizzle has intensified to a proper rain. Silently, I’m grateful that I got here right before the weather must’ve gotten worse. 

The armchairs in this corner are from an era before the corporate office furniture revamp. They’re patterned with fabrics I can only describe as grandmotherly and hard to clean, but the corner is so isolated from any frequented area of the library that the cleanliness seems less than suspect. The same silver and dark veneer side tables that decorate the rest of the library are here too. They dampen the grandmother’s cottage energy just a bit.

Gratefully, I slump down into one facing a window and a coffee table as I gently sling my backpack at my feet. The chair is patterned with dark pink camellias and Rainier cherries. A strange choice of fabric, but it’s my favorite of the deserted options. Quietly, I unzip my backpack to reveal a cache of loose pens, some books and binders in varying states of decay, a teal thermos, and a canister of instant coffee powder. Selecting the thermos and coffee, I get to work gently tipping a portion of coffee into the still warm water and shaking it up. My dad always told me that this stuff is what killed his dad, but it’s convenient enough for when I can’t drag my ass to make coffee before class. Fitting too, if I plan to walk in grandpa’s footsteps. At least I’m making weaksauce imitation drip coffee with it and not espresso like the directions say. I tuck the canister away into my bag, and bring the drink to my mouth. I close my eyes as it passes through my lips, and I hold it in my mouth to absorb the bitter heat. It’s warm and bitter and smells like my grandma’s flat. The coffee is objectively terrible, but even terrible things can bring nostalgic joy. And caffeine. They can bring caffeine too.

I set my coffee on the side table to my right, and grab one of my books tucked inside a binder. This one is beat up and well loved. The familiar design of the white bonnets and red dresses on the cover is accompanied with the lettering that reads “ _The Handmaid’s Tale_ ”. I flip it open to a random page. Reading a woman lament over her lack of reading is an ironic sort of juxtaposition. The lines string together as I continue to read; June’s monologues knit together into a tapestry within my head. _This is the world that looms,_ my old English teacher’s echoes in my mind.

I snap the book shut. I can’t go down this rabbit hole. Not today. Not here. I glance at the clock on the wall. “12:03”, it reads. The second hand is stuck, unmoving; so I dig my phone out of my bag. It’s in a ziplock baggie to defend from the rain, even if the interior of my bag is currently bone dry. I click it on, and the screen lights up in a vaguely yellowed shade of white. “9:44”. There’s no obligations for me until noon, when I meet the friend of a mutual friend for a coffee date. I could go down the rabbit hole if I wanted to. It’s not like I can spiral silently for more than an hour and a half. Maybe I can. Who knows. I surprise myself on the daily. 

With another gulp of coffee and a deep sigh, I heave myself out of the armchair and unsteadily onto my feet. Leaving my stuff for a minute or two shouldn’t be an issue, but I still grab my thermos and phone. There’s nothing else in there that would be theft-worthy. Unless a pickpocket  _ really _ likes shitty complimentary pens. Half stumbling, half walking down the aisles leads me to a misplaced fiction aisle. I don’t know why there’s a fiction bookcase on the other side of the library from the rest, yet I always welcome that nonsensical touch it adds. Scanning the titles quickly yields more copies of  _ The Hobbit _ than I would ever like to deal with, and I haphazardly yank a random novel off the shelf in one sweeping motion. Whatever it is, it should be good enough reading for a few hours.

I head back to my spot after taking a brief detour to gawk at some leather bound books that should absolutely not be in a public library. There’s someone a few seats over from my spot, in the chair patterned with little Yorkshire terriers. My heart jumps into my throat. Whoever is here is not somebody that I would like to deal with in a million years, and I certainly don’t know how they found this corner of the library. I just make a beeline for my seat. Hopefully I won’t have to make nice with whoever is there, and they don’t bug me about having a drink in the library. 

I quietly slump back into my chair, and quickly glance over to my new companion. It’s an olivine young woman, maybe my age, wearing an eye searingly pink jacket and scrolling through her phone. Why on earth she thought neon pink would be a good choice is beyond me. Her hair is dark, short and evenly combed; and she wears glasses that vaguely remind me of Dwight Schrute. Hell, maybe her neon pink thing is hunting gear; and she just got back from skinning a deer in the woods. The lack of blood spatters and presence of her perfectly shined leather loafers proves me wrong, though. 

I turn my attention back to my book to properly evaluate it. It’s got a tall cloaked figure on the cover and a font that is bright red, metallic and gothic. From the looks of it, it’s just another cliché vampire romance novel. I’ve read quite a few of them at this point due to my coffee date later. He’s very into them, so I picked up reading them to have something to talk about. Mostly, they’re not bad. I can see the appeal, and a few of them have been bordering on not puke worthy. I settle into a comfortable position, take another drink, and get to reading.

I thumb through the novel as I slowly work my way through the coffee. Almost immediately, it reads like a Twilight knockoff. The funnest kind to make fun of silently. Its pages are in nearly perfect condition; and it has paper so thin I can see through it -- the same stuff motel Bibles are printed on. I suppress a small chuckle. Maybe it’s that kind of vampire romance written by a conservative Christian trying to make it as scantly sacrilegious as possible.

“Pardon me?” A voice comes from over my left shoulder. I’m jolted from my thoughts with a force so strong that I jump a bit. I look up quickly to see the woman in pink. The first thing that hits me is that she’s tall. Not much taller than me, but she looms with how low the armchair is set. Her eyes are a deep brown and set deep into her soft face, the kind of colour that looks like black coffee. The glare from the window against her gold rimmed glasses nearly blinds me, and she wears vanilla perfume that smells like mistakes. 

“Hey,” I reply as casually as I can after nearly having a heart attack. “What’s the fire?”

Her brow furrows a small measure. “I just wanted to ask if you’ve got a pen. I forgot mine and just realized, and I was hoping that maybe you could give me one. Of course, it’s not trouble if you can’t. No trouble at all. I was just hoping if maybe-” Her words flow together so fast I can barely piece them all together.

“Sure. I’ve got a pen,” I interject before she can ramble herself around any more. “Give me a sec.”

She steps off to the side slightly, seemingly realizing that she was looming, as her expression relaxes into something more pleasant. I reach down into my bag and scoop one out. It’s navy blue with the words “Ilya Aviations Inc.” in white cursive on the side. 

I loosely hold the pen at one end as I extend it to her. “Here. Keep it if you want.”

She nods tersely as she plucks it from my hand. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, ‘course. S’just a pen,” I say with a small smile. She hesitates for another moment, looking like she wants to say something else before she swallows hard and walks back to her seat. Turning back to my book, I decide that I should check the time again. “11:13”, it reads. I should probably get going if I want to make it to the cafe earlier than Lanque. He has the wonderful habit of trying to one up how early I am every time. Lucky for him, I’m very particular with table placement; so it’s a game I’m invested in.

A glance out the window confirms that the storm is, indeed, still going on. The shop is usually a 10 minute walk away, but it’s probably going to be closer to 15 in this gale with no rain jacket or glasses on. I drain my thermos and screw the lid on before letting out a deep sigh that seems to take my dread of the rain with it. Time to get cracking.

I scoop all my belongings into my backpack. Nothing is particularly fragile with my phone wrapped up in a childproof case, so I can zip it up in another single movement. Haul myself out of the chair, and stumble back onto two feet. Sling the backpack back over one shoulder, and then the other; and I’m as set as I’ll be to brave the weather again.

As I’m passing the pink lady, I say goodbye with a half wave. “See you. Hope your day goes well.”

Now, it’s her turn to look at me with a small start; and I pause. “Do you want your pen back? I don’t want to take it from you like that.”

“Nah, it’s just a pen I got from a receptionist. Don’t worry about it,” I reply with another wave to emphasize my point.

“No, no. That’s not right,” she says, brow knitting together again before she begins to rummage through her comically large purse. With a deft motion, she shoves a compact neon pink umbrella right in my face. “Take it. That way we’ll both owe each other.”

Right. She noticed my lack of raincoat and decided to be a bleeding heart about it. Considering her ramblings, I figure that refusing the umbrella will only cause me to further lose this round of “Who Can Be Earlier” with Lanque.

“You sure?” I ask as I take her offering. “An umbrella is worth a whole lot more than a shitty swag pen.”

“Absolutely. It’s the thought that matters. I’m sure I’ll get it from you another time, anyway.”

“Alright, have a good one.” I pepper in another sweeping goodbye wave as I continue to the library exit. My heart pounds as I grasp her umbrella in my left hand. I don’t know how I’ll get this back to her, but I’m grateful for her insistent offer.

When I reach the exit, I wrap my glasses back up again and step out into the storm. It’s raging, and I don’t know if I can make it to the shop without breaking the woman’s umbrella. The woman’s umbrella. God! I didn’t even get her name. Hopefully, she’s still there when the coffee date is over; so I can give it back to her. Otherwise, I think her horrendously hued umbrella is mine until further notice.

I open the umbrella and start on the way. The walkways are more filled in than earlier in the morning. Groups of students walk in tight clusters with their umbrellas in varying shades of dark colours and patterns to shield them. The rain is hitting the umbrella with loud, acoustic drumming noises; I don’t envy anyone in a house with a metal roof right now. 

The streetlights are on as I begin to weave through the crowds, picking up my pace. The sky is so dark that I would think it’s early evening, but it’s not even noon yet. Traffic noises, echoing construction sounds, and the bustle of people carry me to the coffee shop. When I reach it, I waste no time closing my umbrella and immediately ducking inside.

The shop is a long, wide hallway with two large windows on either side of a door at the end I entered. Its walls are exposed brick, and its ceiling towers above me. Several mismatched crystal chandeliers hang from it, each one in a different condition of “definitely from an estate sale”; and they bathe the entire room in an idyllic glow. The overpowering smell of apples and cinnamon dims the quiet chatter of customers. Almost every table in here is taken, and I can immediately pinpoint a very desirable location by the front window. 

A sharp whistle sounds through the shop. It’s not overly loud, and nobody seems to be disturbed. Lanque sits by the wall over to my right, at a table next to the counter. His perfectly manicured hand is up to flag me down. He’s wearing a blazer that probably shouldn’t be in the rain, about 30 layers of clear lip gloss, and a slightly rumpled button down. I check the time. 11:28.

I walk over to the table and drop my bag in the seat opposite him. “How the fuck are you here 32 minutes early,” I state. I know exactly how. Doesn’t mean that I have to like his answer. He just gives me a small, self-satisfied smirk before stealing a sip of his tea. It’s probably jasmine again. 

After taking another moment to soak in the ambience of the cafe, I head over to the counter. Behind it is a barista leaning against the fridge as he surveys the cafe. Upon seeing me, he saunters over. 

“Hey, sweet thing,” he muses. “What can I get you?” His voice hangs in the air, more cloyingly sweet than the caramels on top of the desert case.

“A small coffee. Black,” I request. “Please,” is thrown in as an afterthought; but I don’t have the patience for his shenanigans today. He’s only working the counter about an eighth of the time I swing by, but I loathe it every time. Genuinely, he’s lucky that the owner is nice enough to put up with his bullshit.

He eyes me like snake eyeing its next meal. “Alright, what should I call you?” 

I pause for a split second. “Marcel,” I reply. There’s no way in hell that I’m telling this man my real name. Every time I see him, I use a different alias. It’s good to shake it up a bit.

“Mar-cel,” he repeats, testing out the sound. “I’ll call you over when it’s ready.”

Gratefully, I take my leave to where Lanque is sitting. He’s blankly watching me as I walk back over, and move my back from the chair to under the table as I sit down. We sit in silence for a moment. A few months ago, we were supposed to be in a study group with our mutual friend -- Daraya; then, she ended up in a scheduling mixup and only came to the first meeting. Both Lanque and I were too lazy to rearrange our schedules, and it turns out neither of us pass up an excuse to go to a cafe. 

“Marcel! Your order is ready,” the barista calls in a singsong-y voice. Sighing, I push my chair out and go over to get the drink.

“That’ll be one seventy-five, please and thank you,” he demands, sounding far too  pleased with himself. I pull the precounted amount in quarters from the mint tin in my pocket, and slide it across the counter. He hands me the drink. “Enjoy!”


	2. anise

By the time Lanque and I are done studying in relative silence, It’s almost 4:30 in the afternoon; and the rain’s let up. There’s almost no chance in hell that the pink lady will still be at the library, but I head there anyway.

When I arrive, it’s much more full than it was when I left. The round tables and teal couches in the front area are all taken by students in varying states of ‘working’. Together, they produce a low hum of vague togetherness as they lounge and research. At least the lack of currently functioning heater means that it doesn’t reek of teenaged B.O. I ignore them, and go straight to the back. Each stride I take is long enough that I move briskly and with soft feet. My breath catches as I see her, past the CDs. She’s hunched over the coffee table, in the chair that was next to mine, poring over an assortment of vibrantly highlighted papers. Almost immediately, her head snaps up.

“You came back!” She exclaims softly before raising my pen up in greeting. “I’ve got your pen right here.”

“Fancy that,” I reply as I slink over to my chair and into the range of her vanilla perfume. “How are you still here? It’s been ages.”

She lets out a light, silvery laugh; and her warm eyes crinkle slightly around the edges. “Oh, you know. A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do to make the grades.”

She watches me melt down onto the edge of my chair before I hold the umbrella out to her. She takes it before handing me my pen. “Thanks,” we both say, almost in unison. I examine the print of her chair: it’s wild strawberries and bullfinches.

“What’s your name, by the way?” I ask. “Mine’s Tyzias.” She wrings her hands together as I ask.

“I’m Stelsa!” She replies, taut bodily language contrasted with her cheery tone. “I’d thought you’d never ask.” Stelsa turns back to her project. We’ve exchanged maybe ten sentences each, but I guess she expects names to be within the first five.

“What’s that?” I inquire, gesturing to the wide display of papers. They mostly appear to be hand-drawn diagrams interspersed with printed packets. “Looks intense.”

“Oh, this?” She holds up one of the more intricate diagrams. It looks like a mindmap done in miniscule handwriting accented with different doodles, but I can’t make out what the drawings are supposed to be. “It’s just stuff for a project my political science professor gave me! No big deal, but I want to impress her with it!” She lets out a small laugh again. It’s high and clear, like jingle bells. 

“Lot of papers for ‘no big deal’. What’s her name?”

“I’m taking Pyrope,” she replies. Her gaze is steady, and I can’t bring myself to meet her right in the eyes.

I shudder a little bit for dramatic effect. “She’s intense as fuck. I can help you if you need anything. She seems to like me well enough,” I offer. “Not that she doesn’t like you, or that you’re not capable,” I add in hastily with a small ‘haha’ for good measure.

Once more, she laughs. This time it mirrors mine, but it’s a thousand times more authentic than mine. “I might have to take you up on that. She’s a hard woman to impress,” she says as she begins to gather up the papers. “But I think I’ve had enough of this for today.”

I feel the proposal rushing out of me before I can stop it, and my face heats up. “Want me to walk you back to wherever you’re going?” 

Stelsa hesitates for a second before resuming her efficient clean-up. “Sure! It’s starting to get a bit darker out, and I wouldn’t mind some company,” she replies before standing up. “Let’s go!”

We leave the library together. I check the clock above the desk on the way out to see it’s around 17:10, but maybe this one is wrong too. Time’s just slipping through my fingers today. She walks a couple of paces ahead of me, yet she keeps glancing back to check that I’m still with her. Every time she does, she smiles. It feels like looking right into the sun when she does. A very pink sun.

“It’s gorgeous out,” she remarks as we go through the double doors and step out into the evening. “I love when the rain is over.”

“Yeah, it’s real nice,” I reply. “Where are we going?” We pass by a cluster of oak trees with a group playing hacky-sack underneath. Their cheers and laughter drift through the cool air.

“I’m just headed back to my dorm. I’m in Egbert, by the way,” she says as she glances back and smiles again. “Yours?”

I stick my hands in my shorts pockets since they’ve gone sweaty. “Lalonde,” I answer.

“Oh, you’re close!”

“Yeah, it’s convenient if you like the library and some old trees. Which I do,” I say. 

She laughs again. “It sounds peaceful!”

“Yeah,” I chuckle a little myself. We keep going for a few minutes in silence. “Isn’t Egbert over by the fire station?”

Stelsa winces lightly, her mouth in a slight grimace. “It is. Trucks go in and out all hours of the night. It’s hard to get enough sleep with it all,” she pronounces at the same time as a bike bell rings behind us. I step a bit closer to her to let them pass.

“Sounds like-” Something icy cold slams into me when the bike speeds by. I feel a shriek come from my mouth, cutting myself off. The force of the blow knocks me to my knees, ears ringing, and my hands slam into the ground. They sting. My head spins, and I feel hot tears roll down my face. The sound of the bike whizzing past echoes through my head, and the wind blows my hair into my face. The wind howls, picking up again. All I can make myself do is stare at the still damp paving stones. Little pieces of grass poke in the dirt between them, lime green and vibrant.

“Tyzias!” I hear Stelsa yell, but her voice sounds like it’s underwater. Am I drowning? I can’t focus. Her voice fades into the sharp ringing. It’s cold.  _ I’m _ cold. The wind stole all of my warmth with it. Now, maybe I’ll just be a ghost or some equivalent spectre floating through this campus. Haunt students and shit. Hang Tagora’s socks from a tree. The thought makes me giggle a little bit.

Something wet is trickling down the left side of my neck. It cuts through my delirium, and I bring my hand up to inspect it. My fingers come away from the numb spot warm and covered in deep red. The harsh glare of the industrial streetlights tint it blue, and my vision swims as greyish tones shine in the blood -- little sharks swimming in the bloodbath they’ve created. The glare off of it nearly blinds me. It sparkles like crushed diamonds. Suddenly, my ears stop ringing; and Stelsa’s knelt in front of me. Everything is in hyper focused detail, crisper than it has a right to be.

“Tyzias! Are you okay?” Stelsa asks. A few stray strands of her hair have fallen into her face. Her voice is hushed with panic, and I can’t see her eyes through her glasses reflecting the light. There’s so much light here.

It takes me a second to process her statement. “I’m,” I weigh the words in my mouth, testing them out. “Not okay. But I will be.” I throw a small, forced smile in at the end. I’ve known her for less than twelve hours, and already I’m bleeding in front of her. To be fair, I’ve never been whacked by someone on a bicycle before. Guess I can check that off of my bucket list.

She helps me to my feet -- not saying anything as I wipe blood onto my shorts to not get it on her; and I hang onto her arm. Her jacket is softer than I thought it would be; it feels like a sweatshirt. My nails dig into her, but I can’t croak out an apology. Suddenly, I’m incredibly thankful my dorm is only on the second floor of the building because my legs shake violently as we walk. Every step is carefully measured because I think my legs might just give out otherwise. The pavement is still so slick in some places that she has to hold me up. Socked feet are slipping around in too loosely adjusted sandals. Stelsa walks at my pace, patiently waiting for me to make my moves first.

“You’re in this one, right?” She doesn’t wait for an answer as we approach the towering imitation Victorian building, and I don’t reply. At the doors, she plucks her student ID from her purse and swipes us into the building. “I’ll walk you up, okay?” The lights inside are on, mixing with the early symptoms of sunset. There’s so many different shades of light; it makes my head throb.

“Okay,” I reply softly. It won’t go louder than barely above a whisper. All I know is that I’m cold, bleeding, and have legs that won’t work how they’re supposed to. If I knew more, maybe I wouldn’t be clinging to a girl I just met. Maybe I wouldn’t have gotten hit by a jerk going ten miles too fast in the pedestrian lane who wouldn’t even turn around and  _ fucking _ face me. 

Stelsa guides me up the stairs as I clutch onto the railing for dear life. The taste,  _ the smell _ , of metal fills my senses as we climb; the handrail is a bronze color that smells faintly of old pennies when I touch it. Her gentle hands guide me down the hall as I inch forward. “The third door on the right,” I hear myself croak in a voice too low to be mine. Stelsa just nods, and she lets me lean against the wall as I search my bag for the keycard. Once I find it, I hold it up like a trophy with as much strength as I can muster; and I hand her the card. She silently swipes it and pushes the door open.

Inside is Daraya, decked out in studded jewelry and enough eyeliner to make an MCR groupie jealous, sitting at her desk in front of a paper. “Who the fuck are you, and why the fuck are you in my fucking room?” She demands, staring insistently at Stelsa. A large mug of tea is steaming next to her. It fills the room with an anise smell.

Stelsa looks taken aback, and I lethargically elbow past her into the doorway before she can say anything. “Relax, Ray. She’s helping me,” I stage whisper as I lean against the doorframe before looking back at Stelsa. “Thank you for that, by the way.”

She peers at me, and hands me my keycard back. “Don’t worry. I’m happy to help- really, very happy!” She exclaims before glancing over her shoulder at the stairs. “It’s late. Take care. I’m a call away if you need any help!” She finishes before briskly heading down the hall with a wave and without looking back.

Great, she’s weirded out. Who the fuck is around to see the girl they just met get hit by a man on a bike then has to escort her back to her dorm, and wants to see her again! I would groan if my voice would let me.

Daraya is still at the desk, watching my internal crisis. Her face is dramatically lit by her desk lamp being the sole light in the room. “Spit it out, idiot,” she commands. I push the door shut and locked, and shuffle over to my bed as fast as I can before sinking down onto the plush comforter. 

“Some asshole on a bike hit my neck,” I choke out.

Daraya quirks an eyebrow. “A dude… Hit your neck?” She stifles a few laughs before deftly tossing me the first aid kit from her desk drawer. It bounces harmlessly on the bed beside me.

“Har-har, Ray,” I retort as I take the tissues and water beside my bed and begin to clear away the blood. It doesn’t sting like I thought it would, and the tissue is stained dusty rose before I dry it off with another tissue. The tissue I dried it with comes away barely stained at all. It’s so little blood compared to the amount on my hand earlier that it makes me wonder where it all went. Daraya just observes me, half interested in her homework.

“Sorry, it just seems a little bit ‘vvant to thuck your blood’ to me. Sucks ass, though. Did you get a look at the guy?”

“Not really,” I say as I take the compact mirror from my nightstand. “They were going too fast for me to tell.”

She runs a hand through her choppy bob, and lets out a low whistle. “Probably should still report it to Student Services. You never know what whackjobs are out and causing ruckuses we don’t hear about,” she replies as she turns back to her worksheet. “I’ve got to finish this up, and then I can help you if you want.”

I flip open the compact. “S’all good,” I mutter. Adjusting the angle of the mirror catches the light several times; and it reflects right into my eyes, startling me. It takes me a moment to get the angle right, but I push my hair away to inspect the damage. There’s a light dusting of already forming fuschia bruises next to a light scrape down by the base of my neck. Nothing too serious, I think. The twang of the metallic taste in my mouth reminds me that the damage might go deeper.

With a sigh, I stick the mirror back in my drawer before I catch sight of my palms. They’re barely scraped up, and I roll up my knees to check them too. I hit the ground at a fairly straight on angle, so I think that they won’t be too scraped up. However, my knees are covered in already drying blood. Some of it has trickled down my legs enough to stain the hem of my socks.  _ Goddammit _ . The first aid kit opens with a satisfying pop, and I unscrew the hydrogen peroxide before pouring it onto another tissue. Its scent is sharp and sterile compared to Daraya’s cozy tea. Thank god, it’s peroxide though. At least it doesn’t sting like rubbing alcohol does. I pass the wet tissue over the wounds a couple times until they’re relatively clear of blood and dirt before wiping the rest of the blood off. I toss all of the tissues into the trashcan, and wipe my hands off on my already bloodied shorts.

“I’ll just go to sleep, and deal with the repercussions of my actions in the morning.”

Daraya doesn’t look up, but she lets out a soft snort. “I think being assaulted by some random dude would make Megido mark your homework excused.”

“Fair enough, but I don’t have class until the afternoon anyway,” I reply.

“You mean ‘we don’t have class’. I’ve got the homework done already. You can copy off me if you want.”

I sigh again. “Thank Heaven for your sudden burst of accountability,” I answer, and she snickers a little in response. Then, I heave myself off the bed; and I place my backpack on my desk before putting the med kit on Daraya’s. 

I stumble back over to my bed and pull the covers back. “Turn out the light when you’re done. I’m out,” I say over my shoulder as I kick my sandals off, shrug off my jacket and roll into bed. I’ve got no energy to switch to pajamas or be more tidy tonight.

“Good night, Tyz,” she replies. 

“G’night, Ray.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i won't always update this quick, but i'm still buzzing from starting to write it OvO. (idk, i never use emotes) things are going to start to get interesting soon, so i hope y'all enjoy!


	3. cornflower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for those of y'all which unreality is an issue, please skip the section between where cyrllic and cup noodles are mentioned. it's mild, but just a heads up!

The frenzied playing of the band fills the entire room. Purple and blue lights shine down from the narrow concourse above, illuminating the partiers in an ethereal light. The partiers exchange different neon coloured drinks that give off a pungent aroma; it causes Elwurd’s nose to wrinkle. She never could get into the fru-fru rave cocktails they served here; but it’s just as well that she isn’t here to drink. She leans against the wall of the repurposed ballroom as she examines the intricate ceiling. Gold trimming is interlaced with delicate scenes of cherubs and sunsets, and she can’t help but impatiently scuff her boot along to the beat of the song. It’s some fast-paced nineteen year old indie-rock horseshit about how it’s the last night they’ve got to live it up. If there was a lick of truth in it, El supposes she might be getting shitfaced for the first time in her life. Sadly for her, losing her wits would make her wish it really was her last night. She folds her jacket collar up so that it covers her side profile.

Pushing herself unceremoniously off of the wall and solidly onto both feet, Elwurd begins to weave through the crowd -- fending off elbows and curious, but misplaced, hands as she does. It takes her a minute or two of ducking and weaving to make it to the other side of the room where a hallway is located. A couple of art-nouveau styled sconces are along the walls, and they cast a dim light along the narrow hallway. The bathrooms are off to the right, and a gaggle of giggling girls are slowly flooding the hall. El pushes through them, without much of a second glance, before turning left to face a large steel door. “Staff only,” it proclaims in bright red paint. She waits a moment for the crowd to return to the main room as she shifts her weight from foot to foot. Once their laughter fades back into the din, she lightly places one hand on the door knob. The silvered metal is cool under her palm, and she welcomes it after the stuffy air surrounding the partiers. Closing her eyes for a moment, she focuses on the cold; and a tingling sensation fills her hand. The metal briefly grows hot, and she swings the door open as the feeling subsides.

Behind the door is a staircase. It’s carpeted in some sort of musty grey fabric, and it turns sharply from platforms to spiral upwards. Elwurd shuts the door behind her with a “click”. The second it’s closed, the walls light up in intricate designs. They’re all differently coloured, creating a small rainbow of art that lights her way. She begins to climb the stairs two to three steps at a time. Her chunky boots barely make a sound against the carpet. 

At the top of the stairs is a small room with a shabby couch and young man inside. One side opens up to the concourse, and it lets in the oddly faint clamor. His face is illuminated by the sterile light of a computer screen, and his fingers fly across the keys. Briefly glancing up to meet her eyes, he gives her a curt nod.

“Really? That’s all the thanks I get?” Elwurd protests before flinging herself onto a blue beanbag a few feet away from him. “You know I share classes and shit with her. If she saw my fucking face, I’m dead as a doornail by Saturday night.”

He coughs briefly before slowly closing his computer. “She’d be dead if you hadn’t done that. You and I both know that,” he says. His words hang in the air like he’s going to say more.

She groans. “Because one fucking dead kid means they’ll all end up that way?”

“Do you think I care? One is enough for me. Clearly it is for you too,” he shoots back. An expectant silence fills the room, punctuated only by the sonorous echoes of music. 

Elwurd turns her eyes downwards. She shudders slightly. If it would keep the kid from that fate, there’s not a length she wouldn’t go to. Looking upwards, she studies Mallek’s gaunt face. The faint purplish light reveals that dark circles have begun to settle in beneath his eyes, and a small smattering of acne sits across his cheeks. His hair is mussed every which way, ordinarily neat; and his eyes look faintly bloodshot. A small, but growing, collection of fruit flavored seltzer cans lies next to him, some knocked over haphazardly.

Mallek sighs slowly. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to do this either.”

“Then why? Is it really worth it to expose her to,” she trails off and gestures broadly. Symbols light up along the darkened walls, glowing a soft cerulean. “This?” He sits there, staring off into nothingness. An unspoken answer hangs between them. A mutual understanding of what must and must not be done. “Are you even sure that your…”

“My contact,” he finishes, eyes still unfocused. “Yeah. I’m sure that they’re right. Last kid ended up like that, and I’m sure the next few on this god-forsaken list will too if we don’t hurry the fuck up.”

“So, we’re really stuck in this shit. Huh,” she murmurs. Elwurd stretches herself over the beanbag. Blood rushes through her limbs before she relaxes, unreasonably lengthy limbs splayed out. “You gonna get any sleep tonight?”

Mallek just stares forward as he watches the lights dance across the opposite wall. It’s been a week since he could get any sleep longer than a nap, and he thinks that his roommate has probably taken over his side of the room at this point. The thrumming of the band downstairs causes the walls to vibrate softly. He leans into it, feeling it pulse through his entire being. He closes his eyes.

“What are we going to do, El?” he mutters. “What the hell is there for us to do? These people weren't born for this shit. Five bucks says that she goes nuts, and we find her chattering gibberish in a corner of the first-floor girls’ bathroom,” his voice rises wildly throughout that last sentence. He screws his eyes shut. “The hell is there to it? So we’re just supposed to follow the directions of some fucking scumbag who won’t even show their face, or baby-faced college kids die? It’s bullshit.”

Elwurd takes a second to respond as she observes him from her beanbag. “I don’t know, man. It’s bull, I know. Don’t have to tell me.” Somewhere outside, the crowd cheers as the band quiets. Bit by bit, their chatter begins to fill the void that the music left behind. Voices ebb and flow against the walls; they crash up and spill into the corner where the two sit silently.

Mallek’s eyes flutter open. “Is there a point anymore? If I stop, will-”

“No,” Elwurd cuts him off. “It doesn’t matter. No damn ‘what-if’s, okay? You’ll just keep spiraling. We’ve done our part, okay? We just need to keep our heads down and keep going through the list, alright?” 

Mallek nods as he takes a long drink from one of the open cans.

“First thing is to get your ass out of here. Come on, get up!” Elwurd leaps off of her bean bag, and she extends an arm to Mallek. He takes it; she pulls him up so he’s standing. “Let’s blow this place, ‘kay?” 

Mallek blinks dazedly as Elwurd leads him out and onto the concourse. It’s a thin platform covered in the same greyed out carpet everything else, including the walls, seems to be. The patterns on the wall behind them briefly flash bright white before fading back into darkness. A delicate metal railing separates the two from the quickly dispersing crowd below, but it’s not enough to hold either of them if they lose their step. The pungent stench of not enough deodorant and too much alcohol rise to meet both of them while tinny music comes in over the speakers -- pre-recorded songs from the band that just played. They walk along the pathway as Elwurd leads Mallek to another set of stairs at the end. They move down it in tandem, and El forgoes her traditional multi-step walk for one that he can match more easily.

At the bottom of the stairs is another steel door; she holds down the handle and kicks it open. Cool nighttime air rushes over both of them, and she leads him out into the night.

***

I wake slowly. Sleep threatens to overtake me, and I fade in and out of consciousness for a bit. I stretch out until my fingers graze the wall -- savoring the sensation. Breathing deeply, I hold the position until I can’t anymore. 

Sunlight is filtering in through the window, and it’s propped open by an old book. Daraya must’ve opened it before she left because her bed is an empty mess of rumpled blankets. In the morning light, the houseplants she’s placed around the dorm are soaking up the sunshine; and they smell faintly of rain. She and I take turns taking care of them, but they’re mostly her pet project. I insisted on having at least one succulent: they’re the only plant I can’t kill. Daraya just laughed at me and said that she’d make sure they don’t die. They haven’t, yet.

My shorts and sandals are on the floor in a heap from last night. I swing my legs out of bed and onto the cool floor. It’s shocking compared to the warmth of my bed, and it sends a shudder throughout my body. The autumnal chill kisses my bare skin -- an unwelcome solicitation. Still clothed in my shirt and undergarments, I gather up yesterdays’ clothing; and deposit them in the woven hamper underneath my desk. It’s getting pretty full, and I should do some laundry sometime soon. It’s still got a few days left on it, though.

A harsh buzzing slices through the air, and it’s coming from my bag. I fumble to open my backpack and the zippy bag that contains my phone. The noise has ceased; I discover that it’s a text from Daraya. “Won’t b back until l8r, save a seat in megido’s.” She offers no word on where she went, but I auto-reply with a singular thumbs up emoji. Wherever she is is a place I’m just fine not knowing about. Daraya has the habit of skulking off into the unknown without telling anybody, and she’s not gotten injured yet. 

I retrieve a towel hung on the curtain rod. It’s white and patterned with little red hearts. Tagora got it for me a couple years back as a gag gift, but it’s a great quality towel otherwise. Nimbly, I wrap it around my waist before grabbing my keycard, a set of clothing, and the bottle of 3-in-1 body wash, conditioner, and shampoo from my desk; and I leave out to the hallway. Down to the right of the hallway -- give or take a minute’s walk -- is the showers. My bare footsteps echo as I push the door of the restroom open. It’s empty. I thank whatever deity watching over me that my horrendous habit of late rising has paid off.

As I’m plodding over to a shower stall, the frigid air causes my hair to stand on end. The window at the end of the tiled room has been flung open, presumably to prevent mold from forming on the hospital green everything. I grit my teeth and continue onto the stall directly to the left of the window. Nobody ever comes down this far into the cold, so I hope that it’ll ensure I’m in relative privacy as I shower. 

***

After I’ve showered, I find myself standing in front of the mirror above one of the bathroom sinks. My breath clouds the faded silvering of the mirror in short, tense, puffs -- making it hard to see my reflection. My sopping wet hair saturates the shoulders of my shirt; and it stings in the chill. I observe the bruising on my neck that’s settling into nauseous yellows and purples. It’s warm to the touch, and it protests against me prodding at it. All I can do is sigh. The bruises are probably going to stick around for a bit.

I take a hair tie from my wrist and gather up my hair. It’s barely long enough to tie up, and a few strands fall into my face -- stopped by the edges of my glasses. I untie my jacket from around my waist and shrug it on. The lining is silky against my cool skin. It’s a welcome comfort as I straighten up in front of the mirror. Dark circles fill in the space underneath my eyes. I don’t know if they’ll ever really go away: they’ve been there since I stayed up too late reading in the first grade.

I scoop up my bundle of clothing and soap wrapped in the towel, and leave the room. Almost immediately, the hallway is tropical compared to the bathroom. I schlepp back to my dorm room. Once I get there, I let myself in; and I walk over to close the curtains and window. It’s warm in here, and the air from the heater fills the tiny room. I toss the towel back over the curtain rod, place the shampoo in a desk drawer, and deposit the clothing in the hamper before picking up my phone. The text from Daraya is still there at the top of notifications, right above a good-morning text from my mom. I quickly text her back the same, despite it being several hours later.

My desk is covered in textbooks and half-arranged papers. An overworked stapler sits in one corner next to another one of Daraya’s plants. She called this one a “maidenhair fern”. I just call it funeral parlor decor. On the other end is a couple of mugs with varying contents. I think one of them has old tea, and the other one is a quarter full with what looks like water. I promptly dump the water into the plant.

There’s nothing really for me to do. I could finish up my English homework if I wanted, but that would only kill twenty minutes at max. I snag a throw blanket off my bed; and settle, legs criss-crossed, into my chair. Its lack of arms lets me fold my legs up, even if they comically stick out of the sides. Wrapping the blanket around me, I examine the papers. Calculus homework isn’t due until next week. Political science is already done, and the same with art history. All that’s left is English, really. I wish I’d taken Russian or something interesting to fill the rest of my time with; but finals are supposed to already be killer with my current class load. 

I fish a paper out of the stack. It’s the basic Cyrllic alphabet in stilted handwriting. I wrote it out a few weeks ago, and I’ve been coming back to it periodically when I need practically anything to do. Studying would be a pain in the ass with the beginnings of a headache haunting my head, and there’s nothing urgent enough to make me want to do it. I begin going over the alphabet, quizzing myself on the sounds each letter makes. It’s tedious, and it numbs me to anything else. The aching panic in my chest is dulled. Each sound is one I make out loud. I’m clumsy, and they sound vaguely strangled. Still, work is work; and I’ll never learn to speak the whole language anyway. The letters begin to string together, absorbing me fully, as I settle into a rhythm. 

The letters on the page rearrange themselves -- twisting into monoliths of familiar and foreign. Cyrllic letters present as intimate markers. They’re like what I would see on a billboard advertising a new flavour of shitty diet soda while English begins to look increasingly impenetrable. The script on my piles of papers is incomprehensible. The strangeness and impossibility of this isn’t hitting me because that numbness is still filling me. It’s like cotton balls, and it clogs my senses. I feel my heart begin to pace faster, but it feels distant from me. It’s an old childhood friend I’ve lost touch with, and I no longer know where they are -- even though their landline digits are still clear. 

I struggle to breath, and shut my eyes as I force air through my lungs. Slowly. Inhale for four. Hold. Exhale. Repeat. The air cycles through me, and it pulls me back down to earth. With each breath, I feel the numbness beginning to subside; and my heart begin to quiet. Feeling returns to my fingers, and I wiggle them -- testing them out. After what feels like eons, I reopen my eyes and soften my breath. The letters are still twisted. Curiosity fills me as they begin to rearrange once again. This time, they’re moving into the “correct” positions; and the handwriting on my papers is legible once again.

_ What the actual fuck was that? _ I stare at my hands. My fingers are still stubby and covered in residual gel ink. My nails are still roughly bitten down. The small scars from accidents with kitchen knives still litter my knuckles. They’re tinged a grey-ish blue, but I have to pass it off as the light being tinged by the grey curtains. Right? I replaced them a few days ago because I couldn’t stand Daraya’s horrendous emerald green ones, and I haven’t really been in here much since.

One of my hands flies up to my neck. It’s warm, far warmer than it should be. Anxiety does that, right? I should be overheating in general, yet my legs are still cold under their blanket. The chill is still settled deep in my bones, and it spreads throughout me. It’s a heavy cold; it’s the kind that aches within your very being. I caress the bruising thoughtfully, appreciating the warmth it brings my hand. 

Maybe low blood sugar is fucking with me. That’s got to be it. In one of my desk drawers is a cup noodle, and slide the drawer open. “Shrimp flavor,” it reads. Not my favorite, but good enough for now. I crush the container between my palms, rolling it to break up the noodles. Then, I tear off the top; and take the pair of stainless steel chopsticks from the same drawer. I nudge it closed with the paper covering inside. 

I raise the chopsticks to my lips with a cluster of dry noodles on them. It’s salty and gets stuck in my teeth. Dry, too; but I don’t have any water. I swallow it down anyway. The dehydrated carrot is questionably carrot, and its disputable origins are a welcome consistency. Continuing on with my makeshift meal, I pull an essay over from the corner of my desk. It’s an analysis on the judicial customs of the Supreme Court I’ve yet to read over. I probably should, so I do. My writing is rough and unpolished. It makes me cringe a little bit inside. I sound like I’m leaning over a dinner table, rambling about it with a glass of wine that keeps sloshing on the tablecloth as I gesticulate. It’s not bad at explaining, but it does need some editing to adjust the tone. Mentally, I push that off until I’ve finished my uncooked noodles. The paper is smooth under my fingers as I turn the pages. 

I settle into it, and the warmth of the room begins to finally diffuse into me as well. It’s comfortable, removing some of the cold’s ache. For a few minutes, I forget the nagging feeling of dread that’s pursued me since last night. Some creeping sense of normalcy replaces it. My limbs feel leaden without the frigid air to lighten them, and fatigue begins to set in. Exhaustion, a familiar companion, is here with me again. In all honesty, I’d take sleepiness over the insidious feeling I’ve finally lost it.

I can see the headlines now. “College freshman gone mad!” Do they even write about those things? Maybe in the most local of papers in towns where the football teams aren’t good enough to write about. Here, I’d probably be an afterthought whispered about when the homework is so mind-numbingly mundane you’d rather do literally anything else in the world. 

The noodles are gone; and I chuck it into the trashcan, aiming carefully to make the shot. It clatters against the grocery bag lining, and I set the chopsticks into an empty mug. On it is a picture of Nic Cage dressed up as Superman. It’s another of Tagora’s gag gifts. At least he gives functionally stupid presents. 

I gather up my mugs, my thermos and the chopsticks as well as a travel size bottle of dish soap and a purpled rag. Down at the bathroom, I go about washing up my armful of dishes; and dry them with paper towels before returning to my room. 

My phone screen is lit up with notifications. They’re from an unnamed group chat with Tagora, Lanque, Daraya, and a few other mutual friends. I pick up the phone and scroll through the most recent of messages. Apparently, they’re making plans to crash open mic night at a bookstore-cafe downtown around 19:00. I text a quick “I’m in” before putting my small collection of drinking ware away; and grabbing my English homework.


	4. saffron

Tagora stands at the bus stop. He taps his foot impatiently as I walk up to him. “It’s late, again,” he states while chewing lightly on the inside of his cheek. Cars rush past him in blurs of black, silver, and red; headlights semi-silhouetting him. Their headlights aren’t all on yet, but some people have already flicked them on despite the street lights.

“I’m not entirely sure what compelled you to think that it would be here on time,” I reply. “It doesn’t exactly have a record of being punctual,” I emphasize my consonants so that he can’t chide me on not enunciating properly.

He snorts derisively. “Fair.” He’s dressed for the night with the vest of a three-piece suit -- I know for a fact he doesn’t have the jacket for it -- and a pair of oxfords. They’re immaculately waxed aside from a couple of deep scuffs on the sides. 

“Why the suit jacket?” I ask. “It’s an open-mic night for drunken toddlers, not a trip to  _ La Traviata _ .” He ignores me for a second as he studies something in a car stalled at the red light before answering. 

“It’s in an old ballroom. Looking the part of someone who is supposed to be there is half the battle,” he says. Tagora doesn’t offer the specifics of what battle he’s fighting, and I decide against pressing the subject. “You really didn’t get the memo?”

I’m wearing a thick flannel jacket and some sneakers; it’s hardly as polished as what he’s chosen. “Cocky to assume that we’re fighting the same battle,” I shoot back. He ignores me as he cranes his neck to look past me, and I follow suit. The bus is sluggishly moving through the rush of evening traffic. Its headlights have been turned on. I fish in my pocket for the change. Earlier, I counted out the exact fare because fumbling to count it is a pain in the ass. Tagora has one of those cards that has your fare in it already, and he’s been urging me to get one. I keep saying no since there’s a thirty percent chance I’ll lose it within the week.

The bus screeches to a stop in front of us, and a crowd of passengers step off. Tagora and I are the only two at this stop so the loading process is quick. He scans his card with a small ‘beep’, and I slide the change through the meter next to the driver. Only a few seats are taken, mostly near the exits. Without hesitating, Tagora strides down the aisle and slips into a window seat; I sit next to him.

“Jesus Christ, dude. Lay off the cologne,” I half-whisper as I fold my legs into the space. He elbows me sharply -- half-joking, half-embarrassed. I can’t help but chuckle. For the entirety of the rest of the ride, we sit in mutual silence. The rest of the passengers seem to be steeped in a sleepy stupor, and they’re silent. For the entirety of the rest of the ride, we’re quiet as well.

***

This bookstore has a pink and green pinstriped awning. It’s horrendous: I love it. A small crowd has gathered inside, behind the large front windows. Small tables have been shoved up against the sides of the large room to make standing room on the floor below a large loft. The loft is covered with bookcases that look like they violate at least a few fire codes. 

Tagora pulls the door open, and I fall into a dramatic joke-curtsy. “After you, my liege,” I offer. He rolls his eyes before walking in. I follow him. Inside, some old jazz is playing over the speakers. It’s the kind they often play in upscale hotel lobbies, and I do a little shoulder wiggle dance. Tagora side-eyes me with a look that could probably kill. I just laugh a little bit. The room is a pungent mixture whiskey and Axe body spray. For a moment, I consider making some quip about how we must have found the National Frat Bro Convention; but I bite it down.

Tagora is scanning the room. Over to the side, there’s a few tables squished together next to a chalk board of available orders; up on the loft is microphone stand underneath a bunch of multicoloured Christmas lights haphazardly strung from the ceiling. Upon closer inspection, it looks like Lanque is hanging out next to a dark haired man with large glasses. I gesture to them. “Looks like Lanque made it here before us.”

Tagora follows the direction of my hand, and he freezes like a man with a gun to his head. Pink washes over his face again. My vision swims. He greys out, and his blush is the colour of a stormy sea. His eyes are yellowed. Does he have jaundice? I tear my eyes away from him. My breathing hitches as I notice Daraya in the corner. She is greyed too. Sickly -- her eyes are unhealthily yellow as well. An emerald hue that tastes faintly of apple Jolly-Ranchers emanates from her. She’s talking to someone I can’t see, and her eyes crinkle at the edges as she throws her head back in wry laughter.

A light touch on my right shoulder brings me back into myself. “Hello?” The figure asks. I whip my head around to see a girl half a head shorter than me -- from my math class, I think. Her head is shaved on one side, and silver piercings litter her ears. A snake curls around the edge of her ear with small blue stones for eyes.

“I just need to get past you, sorry,” she says as she gently pushes past me. Her hands feel like something I knew long ago. 

“Oh- uh- yes. Sorry,” I stammer out as I step into Tagora’s side. He elbows me off of him once she’s past with a huff, looking normally colored again. “Want to get something to drink?” I ask him. I know full well what his answer will be, but it’s a courtesy.

“Sure,” he answers in a huff. We walk over to the tables where they’re serving refreshments. He asks the man running it for a lemonade and a glass of their cheapest of white wine. Tagora told me once that he can’t tell the difference between the expensive stuff and the cheap versions, so he doesn’t bother with it anymore. After a few moments, he hands me the lemonade; and he tips a small amount of his wine into it. It’s just enough to taste it, but it isn’t enough to do any damage.

“Thanks,” I mutter. The plastic cup is freezing, and condensation begins to form which makes my hand slick. We’ve done this routine who knows how many times before. He can hold his liquor with grace; I end up telling girls in the bathroom about the Loch Ness monster’s true whereabouts. We compromise well enough. 

The clock on the wall pronounces that it’s 18:50, so the acts should be starting soon. A few more people trickle in while Tagora and I walk over to Daraya. As we get closer, I find that she’s talking to Stelsa. Stelsa’s lips are coated in some shimmery lip-gloss that catches the lights, and she’s wearing the same eye-searing pink jacket as she was yesterday. 

“Hey, losers,” Daraya greets with a sip of her drink. “Glad to see you didn’t get lost.”

“Your faith in our combined navigational skills is stunning,” I deadpan back before greeting Stelsa. “Didn’t think you’d be here. S’nice to see you.”

“It’s good to see you too!” she chirps before turning back to Daraya. “What were you saying about your friend?”

Daraya groans lightly. “Yeah, he’s gonna let out some poetic load of bullshit when it’s his turn. Take it, or leave it. He’s the reason we end up at these places like- every other week.” Her small rant on the quality of Lanque’s poems is steeped in a sisterly affection. She wouldn’t be here if she thought his poems were absolute shite, but she gives him crap about it constantly. 

I sit down on the table just off to Daraya’s left. We’re in a spot almost under the loft where we can see the microphone’s perch clearly, but the speaker might have trouble seeing us. Off to my right is a staircase leading upstairs. 

Without warning, the main lights shut off; and a hush falls over the previously boisterous room. All that illuminates the room are the Christmas lights; I now notice they are strung over the crowd as well. They’re just gathered more tightly around the performer’s stand. The woman that shoved past me is standing at the mic. She taps it once or twice, and clears her throat. 

“Welcome to our open-mic night,” she announces. Her words fall from her tongue like honey; she is savoring their weight. “It’s a pleasure to see so many regulars back again for tonight’s line up. We’ve got quite a few acts for you tonight, so please sit back and let the performers take the reins. Up first is “Rattlesnake Heart” with a few of their new songs. Please give it up!” The audience erupts into a crashing cycle of empty applause. 

A trembling girl and boy walk up to the microphone. She is short, but he is shorter. She has a spattering of iridescent glitter across her face which catches the lights. She murmurs the name of their song into the microphone. After a beat, the boy begins to pluck out a sliding rhythm on a guitar he’s carrying. There must be an amp tucked away on the loft because a cord trails away that wasn’t there before. When she opens her mouth to sing, her voice is high; and it follows a piercing melody that mimics the guitar’s notes. 

For a few moments, the only other sounds in the room are audience members shifting their weight around; then, a piercing ringing fills the air. Nobody seems to respond to it, but it feels like the ghost of a hatchet is cleaving my head in two. The sensation is distant; the accompanying emotion is not. Fear rises through me. It bubbles up and overflows through my mouth..

Somewhere deep in the absence of the lights, there is a clattering. A stack of cans that has fallen from their place? I can only move towards it. As my feet touch the soft earth, they feel like somebody else’s. Satellite states under my direction, but they are still not my own. Wherever I was, I am gone now. I stand in a patch of trees that tower above me. Their bark has cracks I could fit my entire hand in. 

“A cathedral,” a voice behind me says. “Aren’t they gorgeous?” I spin around to see it. It is the girl from the cafe, the emcee. She carries herself with the grace of the morning fog. Snake tattoos wind up her arms. In the half-darkness, I could swear that they writhe as if they were alive. “It is a feat beyond nature’s intention to rise from events of pure destruction.”

“Who are you?” I croak out. My voice is scratchy. “Where am I?”

She laughs. It is high and clear like the singer’s voice. “You know where you are, my dear. It would be remiss of me to not bless you with that much,” she declares. “Did you know that redwoods require fire to reproduce? The heat of the flame creates a bastion of life where one would expect nothing but the charred embers of their skeletons.” She studies the trees as she says this. They stand in a near perfect circle around us, and mostly obscure the dusk above. 

“You’re the girl.” It is not a question.

She freezes before turning to me with a smile that stretches from ear to ear. No, smile is not the right word.  _ Snarl _ . “I am whoever I want to be,” she growls. Her face stretches and contorts into a featureless blur, and the two snakes peel off of her arms. They are inky with black hole eyes. Their mouths open in unison. “I am anyone.”

The ringing rushes in again, and I screw my eyes as tight as they will go. When I open them, it is to the thunderous applause of the audience. The room is still dark, and the emcee’s voice comes in over the microphone. She is asking for another round of applause for the duo. “Alright, alright. We’ve got a real nice one in store for you folks now. Welcome to the stand, Lanque Bombyx!” 

The applause is now fervent; it makes me sick. I mutter a quick “be right back”, and I push my drink into Tagora’s hand. He gives me a mildly venomous look that quickly falls into concern as I get up. Without looking at him again, I stumble towards the sign marked “WC”; and I roughly shoulder my way through a door with that one Andy Warhol print of Marilyn Monroe hanging on it. 

The harsh overhead lights flicker on with my movement. The room smells of piss, bleach, and some spray that was probably to make it smell less like a subway station. I almost fall into one of the sinks as I slam my hands onto the granite counter. The shock rattles through my bones. In the mirror, I can see why Tagora expressed the ever-rare emotion of concern. All of the colour is drained from my skin, and the wound on my neck is stark even with the makeup Daraya helped me apply over it. My arms are trembling under even just my own weight. 

“Fucking hell,” I croak. Laughter creeps into my voice and wracks my body. It’s a deep laugh. I’ve fucking lost it. Really, truly lost it. The hysteria creeps into my voice as the laugh’s range spikes into squeaky highs. 

“What in the name of the Pope straddling Putin in a gas-station bathroom,” comes the voice.  _ Her  _ voice. It is easy again. Low. Drawling. The weight of her words crash into the linoleum along with my sanity. Her eyebrows are neutral, but the corners of her lips are pursed in concern. She stands in front of one of the two neon red stalls. I am still stuck laughing out the dregs of delirium. It fades as her eyes pierce me. It occurs to me that she’s seen the bruise. 

“What do you want,” I snap. She recoils briefly at my pointed enunciation of ‘you’, and the fight rushes out of me. “Sorry, rough night.” She doesn’t deserve me lashing out for what she did in my imagination.

She just nods slowly as I lean back into the counter. It’s cool to the touch. “Do you want some help with that?” She offers softly. I don’t respond, but she moves closer. “This won’t hurt. Trust me.”

I am frozen in my spot. Fear, I think. She presses her feverishly warm palm against the left side of my neck. The warmth intensifies for a moment before subsiding. 

“There you go,” she whispers. In the mirror, I can see that the bruise has faded into a couple splotches of soft yellow. 

“How did you-”

“Magician’s secret,” she hums. “Just between you and me.” She presses a single long finger to her lips -- the universal sign for ‘shut the fuck up or I’ll end you’ -- before slumping into the wall with a sigh. “You’re in this shit for the long haul, bubs. Best to follow me.”

We leave the bathroom silently. Lanque must’ve finished his performance because someone else is on. They’re singing something with a slow and magnetic rhythm. She leads me up the stairs. To the right of the top of the stairs is a door, past that door is a hallway with one side opening up to another chamber, and on the side of the hallway is a room. 

The room is completely open on the side we enter, so alcove might be a better word. There’s a tattered loveseat and a few beanbags strewn around. On the loveseat is someone I thought I’d seen the last of five years ago.

“Mallek?” 

His eyes dart up. “Tyzias? What the hell are you doing here?” Mallek exclaims before noticing the girl. “El? Why did you bring her here?”

The girl, El, surges past me. “What the fuck was I supposed to do? I found her losing her fucking mind next door. Am I just supposed to go ‘Oh, well, guess she’ll just die?’”

Mallek’s eyebrows knit together. “Losing her mind?” His tone is kinder. Reverent, almost. 

“Give us a second, and you’ll hear all about it,” El responds sharply before grabbing my wrist. All the gentleness from earlier has left her. “Come on in.” 

She enters the alcove, and the walls burst into light. My breath hitches in my throat. Patterns dance along the black paint like the northern lights. I don’t dare ask what they are, but Mallek will probably tell me. That is, if I remember him right.

“They’re protection spells, so nobody hears us,” he offers, almost on cue.  _ Spells _ ? I check his expression for any sarcasm. If there is, it’s the most deadpan someone can be; and I don’t remember him being good at that. Given, five years can do a lot to a person. “Sit down. That way we don’t have to worry about you falling over.”

I sit next to a beanbag. “Why am I here?” 

“Answers,” El interjects. She’s sprawled over out on the other beanbag. “I get the first question, though. What’s your guys’ deal?”

Mallek hesitates for a second. “We went to middle school together.” His eyes glance over me. Something inside my chest breaks loose.

She lets out a long whistle. “Okay,” she says. The word is drawn out over four more beats than it reasonably should be. She’s stalling, probably. “What do you want to know?”

I can’t just shrug. My stomach is turning even though the fear from earlier is evaporated. There’s so many questions that they tangle together until I don’t know where any of them begin or end. Maybe my sanity has slipped through the cracks for good todayl; I’m hallucinating Russian and women calling trees churches. “Anything. Everything?” I offer. 

Mallek nods. His eyes are unfocused, and he’s closed the laptop he was on when we walked in. “So there’s this thing called magic…” He intones. It’s phrased like the setup to a joke. He sighs. “I don’t know what to tell you, Tyz.”

The old nickname stings. “You can’t disappear for five years and just start calling me ‘Tyz’,” is what I  _ want  _ to say. 

What I actually say is: “Then find out.” My tongue feels swollen and clumsy. The weight of the floor is the only thing that feels real anymore, so I lean into it. It can support me until I have the guts to get the hell out of Dodge, and I rub my hands along the shag carpeting. Static electricity crackles; the silence hangs expectant between us. El is an unwelcome spectator to this reunion, and she knows it. She’s staring at the ceiling with her arms crossed over her stomach. 

He studies the dark pit on the other side of the hallway. I wonder if he’s considering running off into it to avoid this conversation. 

“Why are you here, Mallek?” I inquire barely louder than a whisper. 

***

Three teenagers sit in a web of another’s design. It is within a night that is still young, barely older than a newborn infant. Children with artfully shaved heads sit at the mercy of a girl with hair as raggled as her voice. Exhaustion runs thick through her blood along with the unshakeable feeling that she’s fallen off a ledge in the dark. If someone were to run a blood test to evaluate it, they would find nothing but untreated anemia; and she knows it. She knows that her figurative marbles are lost. Fortunately for her marbles, personal knowledge can often be fraught with undue extrapolation.

Mallek does not answer her question. He does not know if he  _ can _ . Why is he here? He doesn’t quite know why he’s here and not in some shitty motel on the side of the highway. Why he’s not dead at the bottom of a lake or a miscarriage at three weeks in utero. Chance? He knows that luck has carried him far. He also knows that the chances of him getting out of this situation without coughing up answers is near zero.

“Let me try again,” Tyzias mutters as she leans forward on her hands. “Why are you here, Mallek?”

“I asked you that first,” he replies. The bags under his eyes are darker than last night’s. His face is a little bit more haggard. The wrinkles are just a smidge deeper.

“And you got your answer. So, tell me, Mallek,” she says. Each syllable is enunciated so clearly that she thinks Tagora would be proud of her for it.

“What do  _ you  _ want me to say, Tyz? Why are any of us here?” He shoots back.

“Tell her the fucking answer, idiot,” El interjects. “You got her here in the first place. It’s your Gods-given responsibility.”

“Fuck you,” he hisses, flinching like a cat caught in floodlights.

Tyzias leans more insistently into her hands. “How,” she drawls. “Did you cause this. More importantly.  _ What _ . Is this?”

El chuckles from the other side of the room. “‘This,’” she says with lazy air quotes. “Is magic.”

“What the fuck!” Mallek whips around to glare at her. “That’s not how you do this!”

“How do you want to do this? You’re just hurting her. Grow up.”

Tyzias is still, and her stony eyes are fixed on Mallek’s face. “Let’s continue. How did you cause this?”

“ _ I _ didn’t. She did,” Mallek accuses El. El snorts. 

“Only because you can’t actually do jack-shit,” she murmurs. “You were the one that made me do it. All that mumbo-jumbo about her dying otherwise.”

Any colour that had returned to Tyzias’ face is now gone. The sounds of their bickering blur into a cacophony of unrest. All she can do is close her eyes, and draw her knees to her forehead. Tears gathering behind her eyelids threaten to spill loose. Her head pounds as the blood rushes through her. It is the sound of a thousand waterfalls spilling loose. She doesn’t breathe. Maybe, just maybe, she thinks she will drown in herself. The bony ridges of her body jut uncomfortably from her baggy clothing. In reality, she has put on some bulk lately; but she maintains her serrated edges as she collapses inwards like a dying star. 

She raises her head to stare at the side of Mallek’s head. There is a daith piercing in his right ear. “Enough,” she declares. They do not hear her. “Enough!” she shouts. They both face her, looking somewhat startled. “Tell me what the fuck you’ve done to me!”

All they can do is stare at Tyzias. What is there left to say? She stands, dusting her hands off on her jeans. 

“You know where to find me when you feel like talking,” she says to them. “I’ve got someplace to be.”

Tyzias leaves the alcove, and she retraces her steps back into the cafe where Tagora is still standing with her lemonade. “What did I miss?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Hopefully the update schedule becomes a bit more coherent with time.


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